


nostalgia, maybe

by fletcherenns



Category: Skulduggery Pleasant - Derek Landy
Genre: Gen, Platonic Relationships, References to PTSD, fletcher in the ghastly role bc symbolism or wtvr, lapslock, phase 2 rework, putting my username to use, skulduggery sucks and valkyrie understands that, valkyrie's pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-13 15:55:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28780842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fletcherenns/pseuds/fletcherenns
Summary: renn mirrors you on the wooden walkway, and the ginger way he lowers himself down makes sure his left knee never bends. it occurs to you that you’re both technically war veterans, and then that makes you laugh in its absurdity, because you’ve just noticed that fletcher’s shirt has a pineapple with eyes on it. it’s an awfully loud faux-hawaiian print, the kind that your uncle might have worn once to declare himself the pinnacle of fashion; the kind that ghastly might’ve grimaced at.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	nostalgia, maybe

**Author's Note:**

> *shakes derek landy like a box of tic tacs* its been 10 years let val have a friend with brains let him have a morsel of development let skulduggery be eaten by the dog give china back her soul

the blonde shares your tiredness. the bags under fletcher's eyes match your own, and you do reckon his heavy lean has more to do with an old shattered kneecap than the desire to look cool. you both share the downward weight on your shoulders, the constant presence of old aches. it's a string of solidarity that binds you two as friends. you're glad for it, grateful that this togetherness hasn’t changed, because fletcher has a distinct clarity in his assessments that you've found new respect for.

perhaps age is what you two lacked then, but that very bond of childhood trauma interlocks you both as adults who wake up screaming more often than they sleep. "i still don't think you should be here," he tells you, offhandedly, in that terribly blunt way of his. you might have mistaken it for hostility once, wheeled on the defensive - but you recognise now the sincerity hidden in the deliberately vague drawl. you shrug, and your smile is more of a grimace. you don’t disagree.

renn takes a drag of an almost unbearably fruity e-cig ( _jesus, val, i’m not a fucking boomer, cigarettes are_ so _nineties!_ ) and his tone is almost softer as he continues, elbows rested at the short little wall that lets tourists and instagram models look down on the beach when the sun is high. “he ought’ve let you take your time. this whole thing is like..” he falters, losing words, and you join him in staring at the dark mass of sea below. there’s no reflection to prove its existence, and you think about how your body is still a temple and nothing shows how wrecked you’ve been left. you think you get where fletcher's appreciation for the beach comes from. “..like, picking at a scab before it heals. y’know?”

you know. the wound is fresh for roarhaven and the wound is fresh for mages who fought wretchlings and the wound is fresh when the kid tells you that your bigger ego murdered their brother.

you sigh, stepping back and sliding down to rest your back against the giant signpost with a stupid mascot that’s almost bright enough to see even if this tourist trap is closed for the night. the air here has a slight bite to it, but this can’t be europe, because it’s warm enough for his shirt to be half-unbuttoned. fletcher’s always had a knack for knowing the nicest places. you’re not sure what that pang in your ribs is, but you decide it might be fondness. nostalgia, maybe, because it reminds you vaguely of a clear night in haggard and cheeks that hurt from smiling. “skulduggery’s skulduggery,” you say, and that is enough, because you both understand.

fletcher disproves, always has, but you sense that he does it now in the way you purse your lips at a toddler determined to eat seven bags of skips crisps at once. it makes you laugh, almost, but in the same breath reminds you of the way doctor grouse looked at you, the same gentle pity on your behalf. you focus instead on the way his hair flows in the wind, loose, not weighed up with the gratuitous amounts of gel. you’re glad he let that go, if only because it’s amusing to see how windswept it gets. 

renn mirrors you on the wooden walkway, and the ginger way he lowers himself down makes sure his left knee never bends. it occurs to you that you’re both technically war veterans, and then that makes you laugh in its absurdity, because you’ve just noticed that fletcher’s shirt has a pineapple with eyes on it. it’s an awfully loud hawaiian print, the kind that your uncle might have worn once to declare himself the pinnacle of fashion; the kind that ghastly might’ve grimaced at. you can’t see the scars on renn’s chest in the dark, but you’re glad he no longer curls into himself under an oversized leather jacket. it’s what he deserves, you reckon. 

“skulduggery’s skulduggery.” he says, and his laugh edges on bitter. you cannot find it in yourself to muster a defense. you don’t particularly want to. he pockets the vapor pen, and his tone edges on teacher-voice as he leans to see you better. the stars are doing their best, but the moon is weak and they fight a losing battle. “but roarhaven is roarhaven. it won’t get kinder.” you believe him. roarhaven belongs to renn now, in part because of his closeness to china, but mostly because it lets him be a closer version of himself, a nerd who goes out of his way to teach kids latin or french or chemistry and other things that you haven’t bothered to understand but fletcher is ecstatic over. 

the feeling is warm in your ribs, and you think it might be the comfort of friendship. or nausea, or heartburn. _nostalgia, maybe,_ whispers something in your head. you dig your knuckles into the floor, and the bite of a splinter shuts her up. “i never expected it to.” he nods, once, and then you both fall into silence again. the waves feel louder from here, but it might just be the thrum of the weak foundations and high tide. you want to ask him how he’s doing, sense that he wants to say something ridiculous like ‘ _how’s it going, kiddo?_ ’ like he would to your dog. you’re not sure how nice you’d be if he asked.

you sink into the comfortable silence, tinged with awkwardness because the memory of a previous conversation hurts. the quiet _i didn’t turn you gay, right?_ had hit just as hard as the daggers that have a habit of finding renn’s ribs. and you want to over-explain, that he’s a lovely guy, truly, but you’re a strange thing full of different bits and pieces and none of them slot together at the same time but you love him because he’s seen terrible parts of you and he’s still here and he’s kind and honest and how it’s easy to understand why you both mistook this affection for love. 

this burst of uneasiness in your stomach, you recognise well. regret. wishful thinking. you wish you’d been kinder, but you wish for a lot of things. not bringing about the end of the world, for one. 

a sharp jab brings you out of your thoughts, and you recognise the sharp kick of dusty converse. “ _hey!_ ,” you complain, and his grin is the gentle kind. he declares something about how terrible the wonder woman movie was, _val, i swear,_ and you haven’t even heard of it, but you recognise the conversation as the determinedly mundane chatter it’s supposed to be. neither of you have had the luxury of a normal life but - it's nice to pretend. it’s nice to be out of your head, and you know he’s doing this for his own sake as well as yours.

you bring up your knee, and listen. the nagging voice is quiet, drowned out by passionate declarations of pedro pascal’s beauty that make you choke out a laugh even if you’re not sure you remember who that might be. the ground is uncomfortable, and the sea is loud and the air is distinctly humid in a way determined to make you sweaty. it’s miles better than trying to sleep.

it’s friendship, you decide. a bond with no expectations. it sits next to nostalgia under your fourth rib, but it lacks the ache. you smile, and renn hollers at a joke he’s made, and it feels like comfort. it feels like being stephanie again, without the weight of two different names holding you down.

**Author's Note:**

> sir thats my emotional support trans coded teleporter 
> 
> notes:  
> intrigued how tanith goes back to her assassin-ism. we conclude val n tanith arent the same anymore. ergo val needs a Friend.  
> havent read the latest book, but i skimmed the start and that bit w fletcher Hurt Me so i had to retcon


End file.
